


who will save your soul, if you won't save your own

by countthestars



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, brief mention of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countthestars/pseuds/countthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry sold his soul to be a world famous musician. Zayn’s come to collect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	who will save your soul, if you won't save your own

**Author's Note:**

> this is on the angsty side, but it turns out i can't write anything without a happy ending. so.
> 
> also, please note this story isn't in chronological order. sorry if that's confusing!
> 
> thanks to [jon-snow-patrol](http://jon-snow-patrol.tumblr.com/) for the encouragement :)
> 
> title from jewel's 'who will save your soul'

**I.**

Harry is on top of the world.

He can feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins and the energy from the crowd has him absolutely buzzing. He’ll never get sick of this, never get used to it, the thrill, the absolute ecstasy of being on stage, performing for the masses. He screams the lyrics out into the crowd, feels the same wonder he always does when they scream his words back at him.

He’s only twenty, but he’s on his second sold out world tour, sleeping in a different hotel each night in countries he’s never even heard of. Most days, he can’t believe this is his life. It feels like a fever dream, the exhausting hours, the screaming fans, the continuous _go go go_ , the near constant flash of lights, the long days and the longer nights.

He wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The song comes to an end as the final guitar riff fades out. The band kicks off the next number, a slower ballad with lyrics that sometimes feel like he’s laid bare his diary for the world to see. Harry closes his eyes, pours his heart out into the microphone and lets the music wash over him.

He doesn’t open them again until he reaches the final chorus, looking out into the crowd and feeling raw and exposed and _alive_. His eyes scan the first few rows of screaming fans and he sees the echo of his own emotions written on strangers’ faces.

Abruptly, his gaze snags on a dark-haired boy in the second row. He loses his breath for a moment, nearly missing the last line in the song as their eyes lock.

The boy stares back at him before deliberately bringing a cigarette to his lips. He takes a drag and heat pools in Harry’s stomach at the obscene way his cheeks hollow out. Never breaking eye contact, the boy lowers the cigarette and blows a series of perfect smoke rings in Harry’s direction.

Harry’s stomach drops to the floor. He averts his gaze, reminds himself that he’s on stage and can’t afford to have a meltdown. Shaking off the sick feeling lingering in the pit of his stomach, Harry throws himself into the next song and doesn’t look back at the boy.

It’s only after the last note dies out and Harry is thanking the crowd for another great show that he risks glancing back, wanting to make sure it wasn’t just a figure of his imagination.

He scans the second row, but the dark-haired boy is nowhere to be seen.

 

**II.**

Wiping furiously at his face before the tears can fall, Harry pushes past the cameras and attendants back stage. He spots an exit sign glowing red at the end of the corridor and hurries towards it, needing space, needing _air_ , needing to be away from everyone.

He bursts through the door into the bright sunlight outside. It feels wrong, that the sun should be shinning, when his dreams have just been shattered into a million tiny pieces and his world feels like it’s come crashing down around him.

_“It’s a no from me, Harry,” Simon says. “You’ve got raw talent, but you’re so young. I don’t think you’re ready yet. Maybe come back in a few years, show us you’ve got what it takes.”_

Harry gulps in air, willing himself not to cry. He was so close. So fucking close. He knew, objectively, that it wasn’t his strongest performance – his nerves had gotten the better of him – but couldn’t the judges see how bad he needed this? How hard he’d worked, the overwhelming _want_ that had consumed his life from the time he was a little kid, putting on shows for his family in the living room and reveling in the attention.

Harry wanted to be a singer more than anything and he’d put himself out there, had taken a leap of faith that could have changed his life forever.

Instead, he’d gotten three sympathetic no’s and an insincere “try again.”

He scrubs a hand over his now dry eyes. The judges didn’t think he had what it took to make it. Didn’t think he had the “x factor,” whatever that was. Wanted him to come back in a few years, like he’d be able to choke back the humiliation of being shot down and willingly put himself back in that vulnerable position again.

No, Harry thinks with grim determination. He won’t be returning to the X Factor stage.

He’s going to prove Simon wrong, though. He’s going to prove them all wrong.

Harry’s going to be star, no matter what it takes.

 

**III.**

Letting his head rest against the cool porcelain, Harry gropes around blindly for the water bottle he left somewhere on the floor. His hand finally grips the plastic and he swears softly when he realizes it’s empty. Another wave of nausea washes over him and he sticks his head in the toilet, wondering how the fuck he has anything left in his stomach.

He’s still on his knees, retching pathetically, when he feels a cool hand run soothingly down his bare back. A low voice shushes him and then a cold glass of water is pressed into his hand. Harry drinks gratefully, draining the glass before he looks up to see who his savior is.

His bloodshot eyes meet a pair of dark-rimmed whiskey, framed by eyelashes that are inhumanely long. “Was wondering when you’d show up,” he rasps.

Zayn smiles down at him. “I was worried you’d forgotten about me. Ten years is a long time, innit?”

“Five, by my count.” At Zayn’s raised brow, he continues, “Or wasn’t that you at my concert, blowing smoke rings?”

Zayn shrugs, lips still quirked in a small smile. “Just checking up on my investment.” He looks Harry up and down, takes in the ribs jutting through his skin, dark bags under his eyes, and the sickly sheen of sweat coating his skin. “Guess I should have checked up on you more often. What has happened to you, Hazza?”

Harry flinches at the nickname. “Don’t call me that. You don’t have the right.”

“No?” Zayn taunts, tone playful. “Only gave you your heart’s greatest desires, and this is what I get in return?”

“You know what you get in return,” Harry growls. “Sorry to say though, don’t think there’s much of my soul left. Turns out fame’s got a price.”

“Warned you, didn’t I?” Zayn murmurs. “Told you the cost, right from the start. Seem to remember you entering the agreement willingly.”

“I was 15! I was gutted when X-Factor turned me down, I would have done anything, _anything_ to not feel like that ever again. I didn’t know any better!”

Zayn laughs in his face. “Tell me, Harry, that knowing what you know now, you wouldn’t have done it. Tell me you wouldn’t have struck that deal, that you’d give up on your dreams before you even got a taste. Tell me that, and I’ll call you a liar.”

Harry stays silent, because Zayn’s right. He may have been chewed up and spit out by the world, a has-been at the ripe old age of 25, but he knows he would make the same deal over again. There’s nothing like the feeling of being on stage, nothing like the rush he’s been chasing with booze and pills since his fall from the top.

Since the moment he saw Zayn in the second row, reminding him of the clock tick-tick-ticking down.

“That’s what I thought,” Zayn says, voice soft. He presses close and Harry goes cross-eyed trying to keep him in his line of sight. Zayn’s lips brush his, and Harry would think he’s imagined it but for the jolting feeling of deja-vu.

Zayn pulls back, hand still cupping Harry’s face, and brushes his thumb across his cheek.

“You promised me the best ten years of my life, Zayn. You didn’t promise this.” He gestures vaguely at the filthy bathroom, knowing Zayn will understand everything he can’t put into words.

“And you promised me your soul, not a burnt-out husk.”

Harry reels back as if he’s been slapped. Zayn’s words cut deep, hurt in a place that Harry didn’t think he could still feel. If a fucking demon, or whatever the hell Zayn is, thinks his soul is… that it’s… he can’t finish the thought.

Zayn stands abruptly and despite himself, Harry immediately misses his warmth.

“Deal’s off. Your soul, or whatever’s left of it, is yours to keep.” He pulls a cigarette out of nowhere and sticks it between his lips, lighting it as he walks away without a backward glance.

“Wait,” Harry says, but this time Zayn doesn’t turn around. Harry would chase after him, but he already knows it’s futile. Zayn’s gone, lost to the shadows.

Harry touches his fingers to his lips, wondering if it was all a dream.

 

**IV.**

It’s chilly and he wishes he’d brought a warmer sweater. He shivers a little as cool breeze cuts through the air, wrapping his arms around himself in a useless attempt to warm up. _This is stupid_ , he thinks. He’s been waiting for fifteen minutes in the middle of the crossroads, full moon hanging fat and heavy in the sky. The candle he’s lit has dripped wax everywhere, the flame sputtering every time the wind picks up.

“What did you think would happen?” He scolds himself. “Did you think the devil was real?”

“Dunno about the devil, mate,” a thickly accented voice behind Harry says, “but I can assure you I’m real.” He whirls around, heart pounding, and sees a boy only a few years older than him. He’s got dark hair slicked back in a quiff and appears to be blowing smoke rings. Harry experiences a moment of confusion before he sees the glowing ember from the cigarette in his hand.

“Who are you?” he demands, trying to cover his sudden fear.

The boy smiles lazily and Harry feels something tug low in his belly. “Think you know the answer to that, don’t you, Harry?”

“How do you,” he swallows, “how do you know my name?” It comes out barely more than a whisper.

“Oh, I know all kinds of things about you,” the boy says casually, flicking his cigarette to the ground before grinding it out with the toe of his boot. “Your deepest, darkest secrets, your biggest fears…” he pauses, raises a dark eyebrow. “Your greatest desires.”

Harry feels goosebumps break out over his skin. He tries to swallow again, but his mouth is dry.

“What do you know about my desires?”

The boy steps closer, out of the shadows, and Harry can make out his features in the bright light of the moon. He’s got a face so beautiful it can’t possibly be human. Harry would sell his soul for those cheek bones.

Well, that is, if he wasn’t about to sell it for something else.

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” the boy asks. “Ready to get down to business.”

And wait, how did he know what Harry was thinking?

The boy laughs. “Oh, wipe that shocked expression off your face. Can’t actually read minds, you know. But I can sense your desires, the depths you’d go to reach them. If I was a betting man, I’d say you’re ready to negotiate.”

He takes another step and now both of them are standing in the center of the crossroads, Harry’s little candle flickering on the ground between them.

“What do you want, Harry?” the boy whispers.

Harry closes his eyes, thinks of the bright lights when he was on stage and the whole world that was at his feet, the dizzying feeling of it all before those three little words (no, no, _no_ ) brought it all tumbling down.

“I want to be a singer,” he says finally, “I want to sell out arenas, travel the world, have a platinum album.”

He opens his eyes, sees the other boy’s face is only inches from his own. “I want _everything_ ,” Harry says, voice clear and unwavering.

“Okay, Hazza,” the boy agrees, and Harry can smell the scent of smoke clinging to his leather jacket. “And what are you willing to give up?”

Harry starts at the unexpected nickname before shrugging it off as an attempt to get under his skin. He’s not here to play games, won’t let the boy toy with him. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

The boy laughs again. “Bargaining is not your strong suit, is it? That’s all right. I’ll offer you a fair deal.” He pauses, considering. “I’ll give you ten years, Harry. Ten years on top of the word.” He reaches out, rubs cool fingers down the side of Harry’s face. Harry shudders at the touch.

“Ten years,” he echoes. “Then what?”

The boy pulls back, shrugs. “Then I’ll come collect. Your soul isn’t such a large price to pay, is it, to get everything you’ve ever wanted?”

Harry sucks in a breath, feels pinpricks of apprehension at the casual mention of selling his soul. That’s why he came to the crossroads, isn’t it? He swore he’d do whatever it took.

He never thought he’d have to go this far.

“We got a deal then?”

Harry squares his shoulders, shakes off his lingering anxiety. “Deal.” He reaches out a hand, intending to shake on it.

The boy considers his hand for a moment before reaching out, lightning quick, and grabbing hold of Harry, tugging him forward in one fluid motion. Harry stumbles into him, throwing his other hand out for balance and gripping the boy’s shoulder. He sees a flash of teeth in the moonlight, a feral grin, before the boy swiftly presses his lips to Harry’s.

The kiss is over before Harry really registers what’s happened. He’s left standing there, shivering, as the boy turns and walks away, throwing a casual “see you in ten years!” over his shoulder.

“Wait!” Harry calls out at his retreating back. “What’s your name?” He asks, a bit desperately.

The boy turns without breaking his stride, walking backwards with a grace Harry could never hope to achieve. “Zayn,” he says, his voice muffled by the wind. “My name is Zayn.”

He disappears into the night and Harry is once again left alone. He looks down, sees that his candle has finally been snuffed out. He picks it up, scrubs his foot over the gravel to hide the telltale melting wax staining the ground.

“Zayn,” he whispers to himself, fingers pressed to his lips. He looks again towards the direction where he’s disappeared, but can’t make out anything beyond the shadows. After a long moment, he starts walking home.

He should be more concerned, maybe, that he’s just stuck a deal to sell his soul, that unless Zayn was bullshitting him, his life is about to change drastically.

Instead, he rubs his fingers over his lips again, trying to memorize the fleeting feeling of Zayn’s mouth pressed against his own.

It was his first kiss.

 

**V.**

It’s been years since his name has been in the paper, longer yet since he’s graced the headlines.

Harry grabs a banana from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter, makes a mental note to buy more when he goes grocery shopping later, and heads out the door for his morning run.

He takes his usual route past the river, likes hearing the roar of the water as it rushes past. He can feel his heartbeat pulsing as his feet pound along the pavement. Breathing deep, he relishes the burning feeling in his lungs, the way it soothes his soul.

It makes him feel alive.

He’s about to turn back towards home when a figure leaning on the railing alongside the riverbank catches his eye. Without thinking, his feet carry him in that direction, until he’s face to face with someone he never thought he’d see again.

“Zayn?” he questions cautiously, not quite daring to believe it.

He’s met with Zayn’s warm smile, crinkling the skin around his eyes. Harry didn’t know they could sparkle like that, the early morning light catching on flecks of burnished gold.

“I’ve never seen you in sunlight before.”

“Yeah, well,” Zayn lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “No one makes shady dealings in the light of day, do they? My line of work is better suited for the shadows.”

Harry hums in agreement, lets an easy silence fall between them. When Zayn doesn’t seem inclined to say anything else, he says, casually, “You’re in the sunlight now.”

“Well spotted.”

Undeterred, Harry bumps his shoulder into Zayn’s. “Why are you here, Zayn? I’m not your investment anymore.”

“No,” Zayn says finally. “I don’t suppose you are.”

Harry can’t help the feeling of disappointment that settles over him. He’d hoped – well, it was a stupid thought anyway.

“You didn’t have to sell your soul to me to make it, you know.”

That startles Harry from his wandering thoughts. “What?”

Zayn’s not looking at him, instead staring out over the water. “You could’ve waited a year, gone back on the X-Factor, Simon’d’ve put you through in a heartbeat. You didn’t need my help; you’d have made it just fine on your own.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Finally, Zayn turns to him. “Because I want you to understand, Harry. What you wanted… it was always going to cost you. Someone like you… you couldn’t have made it that far without losing a little bit of yourself, giving away something precious.”

Harry stares back at him, dumbfounded.

“I just… I wanted to protect you from it. Thought maybe if your soul belonged to me, no one else could have a piece.”

“Well, that was stupid of you.”

Zayn huffs out a laugh. “I know, I know. I realized when I saw you at the concert. You surpassed the hype; it was really kind of incredible.” He smiles fondly at Harry before turning back towards the river. It’s a moment before he continues. “They were building you up on a pedestal so high… Christ, Harry, I wasn’t sure you’d survive when you came crashing down.”

“I almost didn’t,” he admits, speaking to the ground.

“I know,” Zayn says again. “But you did survive, didn’t you? Bounced back from rock bottom.”

Harry feels fingers under his chin, lifting his head until his eyes meet Zayn’s. “You already know, but I think you want to hear me say it. You’re going to be all right, Harry.”

Zayn chucks him under the chin, teasing out a smile. “Your soul’s just fine, yeah? Bright and beautiful and all yours.”

Something in Harry’s chest loosens at Zayn’s gentle words and he feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t realize he’d needed the reassurance until Zayn had appeared here in front of him like something out of a dream. The peaceful feeling of relief that washes over him feels like coming home.

Zayn gives him a minute to compose himself, tactfully looking away as Harry tries to rub discretely at his eyes.

“Thank you,” he finally whispers, not trusting his voice enough to speak any louder.

“You’re going to be all right, Harry,” Zayn repeats, shooting him one last knowing smile before he turns and starts walking away.

Harry stands there, wishing he wasn’t so familiar with the way Zayn looked from behind, when it occurs to him that he never saw Zayn smoke his usual cigarette.

It’s this detail that stands out in Harry’s mind, different from all their other encounters, that makes him run after Zayn, shouting out for him to wait.

Zayn stops, sunlight glinting off his leather jacket, and looks back at Harry questioningly. Harry has no idea what he’s going to say, anything at all to make Zayn stay, and what comes out of his mouth surprises both of them.

“I want to make another deal.”

Zayn’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “I’m not really in the business of trading souls, anymore, Hazza.”

Harry feels a tug in his stomach at the familiar nickname. “Don’t wanna trade my soul,” he says breathlessly. “I have a different exchange in mind.”

Zayn’s smile is an answer, but Harry needs to say it out loud. “My heart for yours.”

In response, Zayn steps close, pressing into Harry’s space.

“Deal,” he says, and seals his lips against Harry’s. It feels like a promise.

Harry’s got nowhere to go but up.


End file.
